each day like filth
scraped from the eye of god

each moment pure

and i offer no explanations
when i tell you that
both are true

i eat dinner while paul hill
is put to death

i have seconds

and how is it that
in all the years i wasted in school
i never learned about
the babi yar ravine?

in whose blood are the names
of all the slaughtered

picture the world reduced
to those who would invent the machine gun
and those who would use it

picture mercy as
being allowed to die before
your daughters are raped

remember that malevich had his reasons
for painting white on white

remember that pollock knew them

that he dreamed his own death

and does anyone care when a
pedophile priest is murdered?

is the world a better place when
his bones have been
picked clean by the crows?

it gets to the point where
every question is only a means
of avoiding the truth

where august becomes september
and none of us
can offer any comfort

and what i think about is
this waitress on her knees in a
dirty bathroom with her
pants undone and a stranger
standing over her

what i think about is
how good hatred feels

all of the ways it can be
turned into power

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